


Country Music, the Music of Pain. (Or Sam's Revenge.)

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-03
Updated: 2008-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8717125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam's in love with Dean. (Who isn't?). With a little help from a very dangerous country music song, he decides to take matters into his own hands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** My first ever. Please review!

Sam looks up from his computer and sweeps the room for Dean. It doesn’t matter that it’s a Tuesday night or that they’re in some rural West Texas cow-town, Dean has an entourage of the town’s best looking women hanging on his every word. Sam frowns to himself and takes another sip of his beer. It seems to be going down faster than usual, he thinks to himself. He’s starting to feel a little hot under the collar and the cool, bubbling liquid is going a long way toward relaxing him. 

 

His eyes find Dean again and this time his brother is bending a buxom blonde over the pool table, attempting to teach her how to hold the cue. It’s a poor excuse for Dean to cop a feel and Sam is physically disgusted by the pair’s antics. He’s even a little ashamed at himself - he can’t even count the number of times he’s already thought about shoving Dean against that pool table, trapping him and fucking him until he forgets about every single girl he’s ever had.

 

Sam orders a glass of Jack on the rocks and turns his eyes back toward his computer screen. He’s searching desperately to find another job, something to get his brother out of this town and his hands off a half dozen women whom Dean will no doubt have forgotten about by morning. Yet, there’s nothing unusual catching his eye. Sam starts to hate himself for allowing Dean his little tradition of celebration after a job well done. 

 

He downs the whiskey in a single long swig. He’s never been a whiskey drinker; he’s seen how easily it makes Dean lose control. Tonight, of all nights, however, it seems to be exactly what Sam needs to loosen up his nerves.

 

He wishes he could just speak up; say what he so desperately wants Dean to know, to hear. But of course, it’s so unequivocally wrong that just the thought of it is destroying Sam from the inside; eating away at his consciousness like a plague. Not to mention, he’d rather spend his life wallowing in angst than to live with Dean never speaking to him again. It’s not like he can help it. He’s knows its not natural to feel this way about his brother. But the realization has come too late; his feelings for Dean seem to come as easily as breathing. 

 

Before he knows it, Sam is up two or three whiskeys and a small crowd has started to accumulate in the previously empty bar room. Judging from the state of the newcomers – their tired faces and dirty workshirts and jeans - Sam reckons that the evening shifts must have gotten off from the oil fields. Thankfully with the influx of good-looking, blue-collar local boys, Dean’s harem has been reduced to the one, top-heavy blonde. Sam watches closely, his brow furrowed, as the blonde giggles along with Dean’s every joke, touching his arm, his shoulder. Flirting shamelessly. Really, there oughta be a law, he thinks angrily.

 

Sam pushes the empty glasses away, frustrated, and the bartender brings him another beer in response. It’s torture. It’s punishment because Sam is twisted. And dirty. And so-fucking-in-love with his brother that it hurts. His brother, for God’s sake. The cocky smile he throws at Sam when he catches his eye, his grin, his sexy little arched eyebrow. It’s enough to drive anyone to madness. Make even a nun swear. Make even a psychologist do something insane.

 

Closing his eyes, Sam takes a deep breath, the cigarette smoke in the air burns his lungs. He is determined to focus on something else. Over the din of the bar patrons he hears the jukebox switch albums. Thankfully, his brother’s twenty dollar down payment on the lifetime works of Lynyrd Skynyrd has finally run out. The next song out of the box is something Country. It’s not his style – though he’s not sure what would be ‘his’ style. It’s always been Dean’s music, or nothing. Dean’s fucking way, or the hard way. Never, fucking Dean way too hard. 

 

He’s got to keep his mind off of it. The best thing to do, Sam decides, is to get up and walk away. He’ll hoof the few blocks back to the motel room, maybe swipe one of the new credit cards and get his own room. After tonight, there’s no way he could stand to be in the same room, in the next-fucking-bed and pretend to be asleep, just as he’s always done. 

 

He stands up and finds that his legs are a little unsteady. He is hit by the sudden realization of exactly how much he’s had to drink – and exactly how low his tolerance is. He never lets himself drink this much. He’s always the fucking responsible one. He sits down again and decides that maybe he should wait it out before walking back to the motel alone. He doesn’t want to end up in a ditch on the side of the road. He’d never get his fucking chance then.

 

He listens for the jukebox again, but it’s silent, queuing up another song. He’s starting to think there’s something undiscovered in Country music. It’s not just about drinking in the woods, or drinking on boats, or drinking in cornfields, he thinks, it can be brooding and angsty. Troubled - just like Sam.

 

The new song begins and Sam keys into the words. 

 

"Right now he's probably slow dancing with a bleach blonde tramp and she's probably getting frisky..."

 

His breath quickens and he looks over to the jukebox. The words are practically being pulled from his thoughts. It’s one hell of a coincidence. Someone out there must be reading his mind. Wouldn’t that just figure?

 

"Right now, he's probably buying her some fruity little drink ‘cause she can't shoot whiskey..."

 

Sam shakes his head at how completely insane he sounds. He knows he’s had entirely too much to drink when he starts to compare his life to the lyrics of a song - especially, a Country music song.

 

"Right now, he's probably up behind her with a pool-stick, showing her how to shoot a combo."

 

But somehow it’s perfectly accurate. Isn’t it? Or is he just attempting to rationalize his impending insanity. His eyes find Dean and his soon-to-be-latest-conquest getting cozier in a corner booth. 

 

"And he don't know..."

 

He bats down the anger welling up inside him, wishing that he could think of something else - anything else. 

 

"That I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up 4-wheel drive,

Carved my name into his leather seats,

I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights,

Slashed a hole in all 4 tires...

 

Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats."

 

The singer hasn’t even gotten to the refrain before Sam is out of his chair. He tucks his laptop into his bag and leaves a couple of bills on the bar to cover his tab. He’s nothing if not careful to cover his tracks. If he’s going to do it, if he’s going to lose his mind completely, he ought to do it right. He’ll just hole up in a motel for a few days until he can figure out what to do. Until he can close his eyes without seeing Dean painted on the back of his lids.

 

He slips out the door without a backward glance to his brother. He doesn’t care if he has seen him or not. He can’t take it anymore. There’s only so much one person can take before they break. Sam is so close to his boiling point he can feel the heat radiating off him like steam.

 

Sam weaves through the pickup trucks and old cars littering the parking lot. The autumn night air is cool on his flushed skin. He can only imagine what his face must look like; what expression must be frozen on his reddened visage.

 

He tries to shut out his thoughts, but his conscious is frozen on Dean and the blonde; stuck like a broken record. 

 

Finding the Impala, Sam opens the trunk to take out his duffle bag. As he yanks it free, his eyes fall on the tire iron shining like an omen in the dark. His mind skips back to the song lyrics. Before he can stop himself, he sets his stuff on the damp tarmac and removes the iron. He can see himself doing it, destroying Dean’s precious baby just like the song says. He knows he shouldn’t, that Dean would never forgive him, but he can’t stop. The rage and liquor has taken hold of his motor functions and the sober, safe, intelligent Sam is trapped inside. 

 

The song begins to play over again in his mind as he takes the tire iron to the left rear light. The shattered pieces rain down on the tarmac and Sam is enthralled by the sight and sound of the destruction. Something inside him breaks; his self control fails and his rage flows out over the walls like a tide. He circles around to the next light, and the next and the last. He revels in the sound of the tinkling glass and how it crunches, defeated, under his boots. 

 

Sam knows he should stop, that’s he’s done enough, but he’s addicted. Every time he swings the tire iron, a little of the rage dissipates. He raises the tire iron above the windshield, knowing that this final coup against his brother will set him free. 

 

He doesn’t hear Dean holler as he brings the iron down toward the windshield. Just seconds before he expects the metal and glass to make contact, he feels Dean barrel into his side like a freight train. The force of the collision distances him from the car. Dean has managed to save his precious Impala. The car that Sam, is pretty certain, is more beloved by Dean than his younger brother.

 

Dean is lying stretched out on top of Sam, wrestling the tire iron from his grasp.

 

“Sam! Have you fucking lost your mind? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

Sam is certain that Dean’s been shouting for quite a while but this is the first thing that he hears, that has penetrated his thoughts. Shocked, he relinquishes the cold metal bar in his hand and Dean chucks it away, as if the offending object has burned him. 

 

Dean’s hands are on Sam’s chest and he is seated on firmly on Sam’s hips, pining him down. The closeness, the mere proximity of Dean, the object-of-his-fucking-obsession, causes Sam to flush again.

 

“Sam? Are you even listening to me? What were you thinking?”

 

When Sam doesn’t answer, Dean actually hauls off and slugs him; its a staggering blow across the right side of his jaw. Sam doesn’t try to fight it as Dean hits him again, this time causing Sam’s head to bounce like a basketball off the tarmac. Sam’s eyes glaze over with pain and he welcomes it. He wants out of this world. Out of a world in which has cursed two men - two brothers - as he and Dean are cursed. 

 

Dean has noticed that Sam has gone still and he halts his barrage, confused. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with you?” Dean’s voice is quiet, like he’s talking to himself; the phrase isn’t a question, it’s more of a statement. Sam avoids his brother’s fierce gaze. He realizes now that he never really thought his plan through. He went off half-cocked, letting his emotions get the best of him. It was all very un-Sam-like. It was entirely too Dean-like. 

 

Dean shifts back to get a better look at Sam. He notices how Sam’s eyes are nothing but pupil and even two feet away, he can smell the whiskey on his brother’s breath. He wonders for a moment if something was off with their exorcism hours earlier – he couldn’t have accidentally put the demon into Sam – could he?

 

He wonders why Sam hasn’t made a move. It’s like his brother is frozen – in shock? He shifts his weight again, uncomfortable in the heavy silence and feels for the first time, a distinct hardness growing beneath him. This has to be a joke, he thinks. Sam could not possibly be getting off on Dean perched on top of him? Preparing to beat his younger brother to a smooth pulp?

 

Suddenly, Dean’s mind becomes clear on a number of issues he’s been working through in the past few weeks. Without thinking a second longer, he leans forward, stretching his torso over Sam’s and closing his eyes, he touches his lips to his younger brother's, just tentatively to gauge his reaction. 

 

His brother’s body goes rigid and Sam brings his hands up quickly, defensively and pushes Dean away, breaking the connection.

 

“Dean! What’re you doing?” It’s the first time Sam has spoken since the incident and his voice is breathless, uncertain.

 

Dean stares down at him, a look of shock and panic fleeting across his normally passive face. But in an instant, the look is gone, just as if it had never even been there.

 

“I don’t know.” He sits up again and runs a hand through his hair. It’s damp from the settling dew and he wonders how long he and Sam have been sitting there. “I thought it was what you wanted.” He crosses his arms over his chest and fixes his brother with a glare that could melt a polar ice cap. Shifting again slightly, Dean feels that Sam’s hard-on has grown. “Either you’re completely disturbed or you’ve been thinking the same thing I have.”

 

Sam cocks his head to the side. Dean has always read his brother’s expressions like a picture book. “Yeah, asshole. You didn’t have to destroy the Impala to prove a point. I wasn’t sure if I was imagining there being a little more tension between us than normal.”

 

“You could have said something.” Sam sighs. He’s not sure if he’s won or lost. His secret’s out now and he’s not sure he likes the look in his brother’s eyes – equal parts lust, triumph and curiosity. He averts his gaze to where a thin dust of glass lay sparkling under the glow of streetlight. 

 

“Yeah and you too. All this time I’ve been thinkin’ you were a smart college boy; you’d figure it out eventually.”

 

“Jerk.” 

 

Dean smiles down at his brother, eyebrow arched in defiance. He touches his lips to Sam’s and whispers.

 

“Bitch.”

 

Sam sighs and gives into to Dean’s lips and searching tongue. He makes an executive decision to cut country music from his diet. If this thing works out – he’s going to have far less rage and a little less angst; thank God too, because unrequited love is a bitch of a drama queen. He smiles to himself before his consciousness hones back in on the moment. Dean’s lips are teasing down the side of Sam’s neck and he’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven. 

 

He finally has what he so desperately wanted. But he knows he’s going to end up paying for the Impala in more ways than one.


End file.
